


Breaking Off

by Oriole T (inamac)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Humour, Mindfuck, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1984-08-01
Updated: 1984-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:16:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamac/pseuds/Oriole%20T
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doyle and Bodie at play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Off

Christ, it was warm.

Doyle flicked sweat from his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. 

The light burned down, focused with mid-day brilliance on the smooth dark cap of Bodie's hair, bouncing silver highlights off of it, throwing shadows across his expression as he waited for Doyle to finish what he'd so casually started. 

The impatience amused Doyle as he responded. He leaned over the cushion, raising one leg to balance himself precariously in position, ready to make the thrust that would, he thought with a suppressed giggle which almost disastrously disturbed his concentration, consummate the match.

He thrust into a moment of stillness, and was rewarded by an eloquent groan from his partner.

Smugly, Doyle straightened, moving away from the sweat-marked expanse of green which had, so conclusively, been the scene of Bodie's latest ignominious defeat. The other man ignored his partner's obvious expression of triumph. He'd always suspected that Doyle would be good. With his  
background and misspent youth it would have been surprising if he had not been. But Bodie himself had a trick or two up his sleeve. Anything Doyle could screw he could screw better. Moving closer he cradled the warm red balls in the palm of one broad hand, smiling his own invitation.

"You going to let me get my own back, then?" he inquired.

"Why not?" Doyle shrugged, feigning indifference, although his blood raced as he watched his partner's fingers move surely over the tip of the shaft in his hand. The tiny sound prompted by the action reminded Doyle of the cry of a fledgling bird, a squeak that, in other circumstances, would  
have set his teeth on edge but here only heightened the anticipation. Why not indeed?

There were times when his lighter build, his subtlety and, above all, perhaps, the length of his slender fingers, were a distinct advantage. Get Bodie backed into a corner and, provided he still didn't have the nerve to ask for a rest when he needed one, Doyle knew he could take him again. Or  
maybe, he thought, eyeing up the situation as Bodie's first swift movement broke through his re-built defences, maybe he should let the other man win this time. Best of three. Victory would be all the sweeter the third time around - if they both had the stamina.

He moved to take advantage of the break Bodie had given him, his own shaft responding to the situation, gliding across knuckles, flesh and velvety softness in reply to Bodie's all too frantic opening moves. 

Almost Doyle forgot that this time he was playing to lose.

Almost.

The kiss, when it came, was smooth and sweet, a demonstration of his skill, and Bodie's response was everything he could have expected, ricocheting through his defences with breathtaking speed. For the first time he began to have doubts about his own ability to match Bodie's skill. Maybe the last time he'd only been fooling. Now he was really getting down to business. 

Doyle inspected what had been offered to him, pink and white orbs pressed tight against the cushion, scarcely a breath between them.

"Screw this," he muttered, and Bodie grinned at the pun.

"Think you can? From _that_ angle?"

Ever willing to rise to a challenge Doyle took his cue and, half-squatting to bring his chin level with that smooth ivory target, so close that his breath wafted into the cleft, nudged the tip of his shaft  
delicately, seeking the right angle. Bodie's sharply indrawn breath as his partner sought the opening, was more disturbing than Doyle had expected, putting the slighter man off his stroke and making him swear with frustration as both advantage and target slid away from him. 

Bodie, giving him no chance to retrieve the situation, squeezed himself off of the cushions and came down on exactly the right spot in a climax of awesome speed and power. When it was over he looked smugly at his partner.

"Didn't think I could do that, did you?"

"No." Doyle's teeth were set. He'd been surprised by the defeat, it had gone deeper than he'd believed possible, and it hurt. But Bodie wasn't going to find that out. He'd have his revenge first.

"Third time lucky?"

" _Now_?"

But Bodie's protest was lost as Doyle, with a smoothness born of practice, trailed fingers along the edge of the dark triangle presented to him before bending to start the illicit game again with the gentlest of kisses to the balls at its apex. He was far more calculating than Bodie had been, knowing that he had got the break he wanted and, for almost five minutes, he moved with regular purpose, flaunting his skill. He was bending low, all concentration on his dark target, when the silence of the room was shattered.

"Doyle! Bodie! I dinna recall giving you permission to play in here!"

Both men looked up startled as George Cowley crossed the room. He eyed their position speculatively.

"An' no very well, by the look of it." He rested a hand on the edge of the table, taking in the details of the situation with an expert's eye.

Doyle set chalk and cue down with a sheepish expression.

"Aye, lad. I think you'd best concede. 4.5's really got you snookered."

The End

_Honi soit qui mal y pense._

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written 1984 and printed as part of the Latin Hatstands for the circuit archive.


End file.
